


qui vivra verra

by heatherandochre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, Self-Insert, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-10-10 10:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherandochre/pseuds/heatherandochre
Summary: The residents of Number 8 Privet Drive were just as they were expected to be.





	1. Number Eight Privet Drive

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most self indulgent of self indulgent OC's

* * *

The residents of Number 8 Privet Drive were just as they were expected to be. 

As normal as any house on its street, it was two levels with a neat green front yard and a tidy backyard of the same colour. It’s front was a pleasant red brick with an accent of white. The top window at the front had cut outs of paper snowflakes plastered on it, the girl who lived in that room had wild dreams of them dancing to the tune of the radio. On dark nights, when she was scared, she’d call it the Aurora and her room would fill with lights and the low whistling of snow falling on far away ground. All the compasses in her room -gifts from her adventurer father- would spin and spin and spin. 

Like all things that make us happy it had to end sometime. A few arguments, harsh words and a bit of bad luck can take all the best things from us. The exact lesson Eleanora Marchand learned a few days before her tenth birthday. 

\-- 

Somewhere else in an infinite multiverse someone else made the mistake of walking past an old vending machine, finding a few dollars and buying a chocolate bar. At the same time the vending machine suffered a catastrophic failure. And seemed to be jolted by an unknown force. Yeah. It was _ that _kind of day.

\--

Eleanora Marchand was sitting in the back of her parents car. The bulky headphones and classical music blaring from her walkman weren’t helping. She could still hear her parents arguing. She closed her eyes and wished hard. Wished for something beautiful.

\--

Back underneath the vending machine a young woman struggled to find something to think about. Death was meant to profound, right? Your last thought was meant to be meaningful. Her last thought wasn’t asinine or profound. It was just a profound wish to see something more interesting than a protein bar from the mid-2000’s. Even with a dizzy head and collapsing lungs she reached out for something better.

\--

Eleanora breathed out. She thought of snowflakes. She thought of the night. She thought of colours dancing in the sky. In short, she thought of the Aurora.

Funnily enough, so did someone else.

\--

Waking up in the 80’s was impressive even for someone who managed to die by vending machine. If I wasn’t also stuck in the body of a ten year old, in Britain, living on a street made famous by the best selling children's series of all time, I _ might _ be impressed. But hey, it’d been three days since I got home from the hospital, three months since I _ very clearly remembered dying, _to find my not-mother deep in a depression she blamed me for and a letter from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Nothing was impressive anymore. Seriously. Nothing. 

My not-mother, an otherwise lovely woman named Laura, had the sneaking suspicion that the crash was my fault. Or rather Eleanora Marchand’s fault, the fact that I was currently Eleanora made it my fault by proxy. I did blame her for that thought, because Eleanor was ten and couldn’t know that she had magic. Grief is not a linear path and Laura Marchand seemed to determined to follow it down past every thorny bush of blame and hatred she could find. I don’t know if she was kind, before, but she wasn’t now and I didn’t think it would change soon. I could probably process any part of this better than her real daughter would have been able to, though, and for that I was grateful. Eleanora would have lost two parents. I had lost none. 

Except for being dead. I’d lost them that way. 

For now I had the uncertain knowledge of an attempted genocide coming right down the line for witches like me. And honestly? Honestly. I was hungry for it. 

I really, really was not going to spend the rest of my life living down the street from the train wreck of Harry Potter’s life. I had fucking magic. Real fucking magic. I was going to _ fuck shit up. _

And unlike some twinkly eyed bastard I wasn’t going to sacrifice a bunch of children to do it. 

\--

So. Getting _ to _Diagon Alley is not simple when you’re ten, with an actively hostile adult and have literally only lived in the country since you died four-ish months ago. Beauxbatons opened a satellite office inside Gringotts for twelve days at random times of the year. I needed to get there, get whatever information packet they had on offer, maybe shop some and then get out before Laura freaked out too much. If she was slightly less responsible I probably could have gone all by myself. To Eleanora's benefit and my chagrin she seemed determined to not let me go alone. 

“We stick together,” Laura Marchand said as she flattened down her skirt in the entrance to Diagon Alley. “Always, together.”

Those words were inscribed on her wedding band. Laura had known her husband was a wizard. Apparently he’d never even tried to hide it and when she’d half jokingly told him, years ago on a beach in Haiti, that she wouldn’t marry a liar, he’d happily told her everything. He was the third in line to a powerful merchant family back in France. What did they trade in? Why, security and protection. For politicians? Yes, of a kind. What kind? The magic kind, mostly goblins and foreign dignitaries. 

Yes, goblins. And much stranger besides. 

Michael Marchand had wanted his wife far more than his secrets. 

So Laura knew, or at least thought she did, and despite her grief, despite her anger at her magical daughter, she held my hand as we crossed a familiar brick archway into one of my childhood fantasies. 

It was so much more intense than I could have known. 

I had synesthesia the first go around. Numbers, letters and music. Now I could add magic to that. It was beautiful, it was undeniably shockingly intense, it was going to have me seething with a headache in an hour. Laura grabbed my hand and walked over to a large man smoking a pipe and politely but firmly asked where Gringotts was. The man, a little taken aback, blushed and offered to take us himself. I knew that Gringotts was the big grecian one with the off-kilter pillars and I was ready to scream bloody murder if things went sideways. To his credit the man just flirted awkwardly and lead us the right way. Laura didn’t respond the way he wanted, she still wore her wedding band around her neck, but she wasn’t unkind. He even pointed out a woman with _ Hadelinde _embroidered on her shirt as the best bet for the Beauxbatons contact. 

The big man rubbed the back of his head as we stood at the front of the bank. “Er, _ enchante, _and all that.” He bowed once and strode off. 

“He was nice.” I said quietly. Laura smiled weakly and approached Hadelinde. 

Hadelinde was indeed the contact. She was also literally glowing with bright pink magic. Her tall, broad figure was tailored into a crisp white shirt and a classic chanel pencil skirt, knee length, in pink and grey. If I could see the pack of her stockings they would have be seemed and perfectly fit into her sensible heels. She smiled at us both, checked my name on a list and took a moment to place a calming hand on my mothers arm. I watched a thin pink line race up towards her heart, lodge there and ease the tension in her jaw. She exhaled and visibly slumped. 

Hadelinde winked at me. 

Maybe I was weird or, equally likely, this was something that Harry Potter just never took stock of. He wasn’t exactly observant.

“Nora, I will call you Nora,” Hadelinde grinned. “Welcome. I will be showing you around today on the general tour to give you _ and _ your mother a taste of what magic is like. Britain is a poor substitute for the _ Internationale _but it will do, no?” Her voice was high and smoky, her accent slow and steady, as if she spoke to children who needed to be soothed. “For now go on to the bank, I will be waiting for you two here in an hour.” She cast a spell and a hare appeared looping around us. It too was bright pink. 

I followed the pretty bouncing pink light into Gringotts. 

The hare bounced around the room and found a goblin. “_ Laura and Eleanora Marchand for Beauxbatons supplies, s'il vous plait. _” Hadelindes voice said. We both grimaced. Laura and I spoke french at home and Hadelinde’s accent was more than a little put on. 

The goblin lead us not to a vault but to a side room. He wasn’t unkind but he was efficient in producing a list and a map, telling us how much things cost and where and where _ not _to haggle. We realised that an hour was only enough to scarf down some food and hit the bookstore. We’d have to some back on our own later. Laura tentatively asked if we were allowed to come back and ask questions.

“Mrs Marchand, if you wish to come back to this bank or any other goblin owned enterprise you will be welcomed and treated with respect and gentleness.” The goblin, who’d never given a name, said gravely. Maybe what I’d thought of as _ not unkind _was in fact gentleness. “Your husband was a good man and well respected in these halls. His wishes regarding you were clear: kindness.”

Laura had a breakdown in the bathroom. We didn’t talk about it.

I vetoed the bookstore and we went right for food that I badgered Laura into eating. By the time we were done she was a little peppier. This time when Hadelinde pushed magic into her she blinked, dazed, and frowned. I agonized for a moment because this was more than a little ugly but, fuck, we had to get through this. There wasn’t going to be another chance. Laura wavered, set her jaw, and held me close to her. 

The moment passed and a crowd of children between the ages of eleven and fourteen gathered. We were an odd bunch, all different colours and creeds, but there was a sort of commonality among us I couldn’t figure out. A lot of right folk and a few true blue collar types looking as miffed as we had when we figured out it was going to be a weekday we had to take off. 

Hadelinde smiled, that pink light getting so bright I could taste it in the back of my throat, “Welcome. I’m Hadelinde Mess, the British attache for the Beauxbatons Academy of Magical Arts. Today we start on a magical journey for both you and your children. Don’t worry, you have an excellent guide." She winked. “Follow me.” Hadelinde took us around Diagon Alley with stops for breaks for the children. To her credit she was in fact an excellent guide. She gave as much information to the parents as she could while not being coy about the fact that she was primarily interested in the children. She made notes on a chart that I couldn’t see but by the way she glanced at each child I assumed it was on us. Creepy. Everytime someone wandered off that pink magic would turn them back to her. “Now, Beauxbatons has extensive classes on etiquette and conversational proficiency in many, many languages-” 

A passing stranger sneered. “A pointless place for pretty people. Nothing much to offer but wives and mistresses nowadays.”

“Too right.” His companion said.

Hadelinde sneered right back. “And unlike Hogwarts we still teach decorum.” With an eye to addressing the parents, she said, “The prevailing attitude among a _ certain set _ of ill informed layabouts is that Beauxbaton is an expensive finishing school for girls _ and boys _of well to do families. A place they can work on their charms -both magical and not, until such time as they take a husband or, in the minds of small people with nothing to offer, become the kept things of more powerful men.” She was hissing by the end. “The attitude, sexist and abhorrent as it is, is one that pervades the British magical populace. Do not buy in. We hold the most patents, the most accomplished alumni and the most money of the european triumvirate.” She smiles. “We also have the most accomplished duellists.” 

“Well.” A woman pulled her curly haired, freckly child towards her. “They must _ talk _I suppose.”

The kid looked at me. I waved. He smiled.

His mother looked at me, looked at Laura, and bodily moved her child away. 

Laura did not flinch. She was too well mannered to ever flinch. 

I was barely mannered and not ever polite. I stuck my tongue out at her. 

Laura murmured, “Nora.” But did nothing else. 

Bigots, ugh. I hated magical bigotry for making fuck all sense and muggle bigotry for making fuck all sense _ and _following me around from life to life. 

“Well.” For the first time Hadelinde’s veneer struggled. “Well. That’s enough of here anyway. Here! I have informational packets on the children’s classes. I think we’ll hand these out at the fountains yes?” She handed out the powder blue folders, all that pink raging around her. 

\--

So the first two years we took all the foundational classes. In third year we specialised. We sat their version of the OWL’s in sixth year and seventh was spent working on one or two final projects that would be assessed by a panel of experts in whatever field we chose. 

I had no idea what all the classes ever offered at Hogwarts were. I remembered Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology. I think they were the foundational ones?

Beauxbatons list was as follows: History, Potion Making, Duelling, Charms, Alchemical Maths, Maths for Magic, Theory, Herbology, Transfiguration and Magical Care. As that was significantly more you did one set of five First Year, and picked up the rest second year. I had Potion Making, Charms, Alchemical Maths, Herbology and Magical Care. Which left the rest to be slotted in Second Year. From what I understood the schedule was light First Year and hellish Second Year. I noticed, too, that we had not-very-elective-electives. One of which was Flight and another was Ethics. Unfortunately for me Ethics started third year. I saw Music and Art too, but dismissed them.

I loved art but I was here to learn to fight a war. 

History, Duelling, Theory and Magical Care. That was my focus for getting to the Triwizard Tournament. The last was apparently a mandatory magical first aid course. Beauxbatons didn’t have the highest injury rate of the european schools but that was only because Durmstrang practiced the Dark Arts and Hogwarts was literally cursed. What we did have was practical Alchemy which sent more students to the infirmary than any other course _ including duelling. _

What the fuck _ was _ Alchemy?

The doorbell rang.

“Can you get it?” Laura called.

I dashed downstairs, threw on a light sweater and prepared myself to deal with possible Jehovah's Witnesses. I threw open the door with the abandon of a preteen girl that feared nothing for she was the true rustling creature in the night. That’d scare ‘em right off.

A boy smiled at me. “Hi Nora.” His eyes were green, his scar stark against his skin. “Do you have any chores for me to do?”

Hello Harry.

\--

The Dursleys were fucking shit and if I wasn’t above it (and knew how) I’d set their house on fire.

So. Apparently. Petunia had a book club every third Saturday. Until my parents had moved in she’d dumped Harry with Mrs Figg and been done with it. In this universe she dumped him with us so she could pretend to have the family she _ wanted _for a few hours. From a distance I suppose we looked related. Harry was several shades lighter than me and his green eyes were a stark contrast to my light brown ones. Up close it was pretty obvious from the angular face I’d gotten from my mother and the over-defined jaw on Harry that we really, really weren’t. Also, I’m not a huge fucking racist and knew that Indian wasn’t the same thing as Haitian in my mother’s case or a surprising combination born in the Middle East courtesy of my father.

Laura had been the one to agree to the scheme. For Harry’s sake, not Petunia’s. For the years he’d been alive my father had been neutral. 

(From what I learnt over the course of several listening-ins on my mother and her sister, Petunia had met my dark blonde, pale skinned, handsome, Eton-sounding father first. She’d been thrilled to learn he was new and married and The Right Sort -comfortably wealthy and just a little posh. He traveled for work and left his new wife and their equally well reared daughter alone a lot. Michael, Laura said gravely, had found her social climbing amusing for all of five minutes. The way Petunia’s face fell when she realized the dark skinned woman wrapped in expensive silk was his _ wife. _ Well. 

Within a week Laura Marchand was _ persona non grata _ with the neighbourhood wives. A fact that stopped none of them from approaching her husband. He’d see sense one day. It was after all one of those _ cosmopolitan _marriages according to Caroline Bedford around the corner. Whatever the fuck that meant.)

So once a month or so Harry came over and we hung out. On one level I was thanking god because I didn’t need to manipulate a meeting. On a deeper level I wanted to scream because I had no _ time _to work out who I was going to be to him because Eleanora already was someone. A posh kid who ignored him for a couple of hours every couple of weeks. I’d already learnt that he did her chores, that he was compulsively neat, that he didn’t speak back to me or my mother. This was the first time since my father died that Laura had agreed to let him come over. She’d given us some food and then resolutely left us alone in my over large bedroom. She barely had the energy for her strange daughter most days. Strange kid from up the road? Forget about it.

Harry steadily ate his way through the carrots across from me on the bed. He was quiet. 

I cleared my throat. “Do you want to eat something else?”

He shook his head.

I sighed. What to do?

I got up from the bed, unfolded my suitcase and found the huge jar of Sugar Flowers I’d begged for in Diagon Alley. When you blew on them they floated and changed colours. You had to catch them before they dissolved. They also tasted, weirdly, of spearmint. 

I pulled out a small ring of three twined together. They’d come in all sorts: roses, peonies, marigolds. When my mother had rejected the peonies on account of being too expensive I’d defaulted to the kind that gave me the most. Forget-me-nots. I climbed back on the bed. “Watch this.”

I blew on it. The little blue flowers shivered, shook off their sugar dusting and began to spin lazily in the air. Harry’s eyes blew wild. With another breath I blew them towards him. On instinct he grabbed it, crushing it in his grip.

Best Seeker in a century right there.

I burst out laughing as he burst into tears. 

Squashing my laughter - I couldn’t explain it, how did you tell a neglected child that one day this would be theirs too? That there was a world waiting full of these moments, begging for his return?- and pulled out a huge handful. I filled my tiny lungs as far as they would go and blew as hard as I could. The idea of magic had been cool. I could be lazy, I could be dangerous, I could be powerful in a way so few could be. But before the exact moment I blew a handful of sugar in Harry Potter’s face I’d never considered I could grow to love it. 

The cool scent of spearmint filled the room. I tasted sugar. From the walls and ceilings the Aurora Borealis formed and swam around us carrying tiny blue flowers. 

Harry stopped crying, head tilted back, as a lone stem fell on his nose. It dissolved there as he sat stunned.

I laughed again throwing more flowers around, watching the Aurora get faster. Underaged magic, who? 

Laura swung open the door. “What’s that smell-”

She too stopped at the Aurora, at her laughing child, at the wonder on Harry Potter’s face. A small scrappy child she’d already grown used to seeing despondent and wary. 

And her daughter handing him a jar of magic forget-me-nots with her father’s smile, the smell of snow and fresh cut mint high in the air. For a moment she too forgot that she was alone, unmoored, grieving. Her husband had grown mint in all the windows to cover the scent of his magic. One of the strange habits she’d grown used to living with when he’d caught her -his word, not hers- and one she’d had no idea she’d missed until that moment. 

Eleanora turned her head, asked, “Can we make something good for dinner?”

\--

Harry left full of sugar and with three sandwiches tucked in his threadbare coat. It was lumpy enough to hide them in the lining. I was, officially, his new favourite person. Even Laura looked less like a ghost. 

I resolved to get him a pet snake. Fuck the Dursleys. Magic was coming whether they liked it or not. 

\--

“You shouldn’t have shown him that.” Laura murmured from her place doing the dishes. I’d gone back to reading my books for the year. I was hoping to swing by Flourish and Blotts again when we went to get my wand. “He could get in trouble.”

I hummed, marking a page in the Transfiguration text. “He’s Harry Potter.”

“And?”

I got out my first year History book turned to the Notable Mentions pages and found where I’d highlighted his name and description. I gave it to my mother to read aloud: son of Lily and James Potter. Defeater of Voldemort. Heir to the Potter Fortune. A wizard through and through. Down the street and desperately lonely. 

“He’s Harry Potter.” I said again. “He’s special.”

\--

Wands. Wands wands wands. 

I was getting a _ waaaaand. _

Listen. The only thing. The _ only _ thing I ever wanted from Harry Potter merchandise was a wand. It had meaning. It had presence. I could do _ magic _with it. Magic wand!

“Wand wand wand wand,” I muttered.

“And I thought you were bad at Flourish and Blotts.” Laura remarked. I’d been allowed two extra books and I’d gone with a world history book intended for people my physical age and a glossary of terms. I’d wanted the entire History & Politics section but I was aware Laura wouldn’t accommodate that. 

“Wand.” I repeated. “I get. A magic. _ Wand. _”

“Saints preserve us when you find a boy you want half as much,” Laura said, amused. “I’ll have to warn them ahead of time.”

It was even odds on gender actually. And also a long way off. I was never going to want a _ relationship _ as much as a _ wand. _ Wand’s could _ give me stuff. _

So could boys technically. Meh. 

“Wand,” I said, very helpfully.

“Well,” Laura murmured. “If you’re having fun.”

Ollivanders loomed large in my memories as a dark place filled with old boxes. I imagined it would smell a little like wood oil and smoke. I was right in that the shoproom smelt like sparkler smoke but wrong about the wood. Magic has a slight scent, like leaves or dirt or flowers, but in Ollivander’s that had evolved into a combination of animal hide and freshwater. Strange until you thought of all the magical animals that had given parts of themselves for these wizards. The freshwater, however, was a mystery. 

“Ah, yes,” a tall, creepy man with a shock of grey hair said. He was behind a long walnut counter packaging up a series of straight black wands with the ministry logo stamped on them. “You.”

My mother coughed delicately. “We’re Laura and Eleanora Marchand-” 

Ollivander hummed a little. “I have the first one right here.” He threw a black and gold box at me. “Have a swish.” He pushed away the ministry wands with an expectant eyebrow rise.

I took out the honey coloured wand, an awkward length, and swished.

The floor caught on fire. 

Laura jumped and tried to pick me up. My feet were warm but I knew that this fire couldn’t hurt me. I swished again and it went out. 

“Hmm.” Ollivander actually engaged with us properly for the first time. “That one was set aside for you.” He stepped around the counter, measuring tapes and manifests leaping out to aid him. 

“Did- Did Michael come here? For her?” Laura asked. 

Ollivander nodded. “Yes. He wanted to get started earlier on designing her something more...unique. Based on what he gave me I thought that first one would do.” He waved his own wand and series of boxes flew at us. Laura tensed behind me, being an unshitty child, I leaned back to comfort her. 

I thought _ You are looking for Pine, Phoenix Feather, 13 and Three Quarters, Supple _and increased pressure for every hilariously wrong wand combo he gave me. 

“Cherry.” PINE. “Dragon heartstring.” PHOENIX FEATHER. “10 and a half.” THIRTEEN AND THREE QUARTERS. “Stiff.” SUPPLE.

Finally. When I thought I was actually losing my mind-

“Pine, phoenix feather, 13 and three quarters, supple. A flexible wand that adapts easily to all circumstances. Quite an adventurer, very powerful if I may so say, and quite annoying to craft. The phoenix this feather came from was a very regal type, her feathers almost opalescent and beset with a very irate mate. Rarely do they bond but when they do it is best to find a new bird altogether.” Ollivander said self importantly. 

Lying in a plush brown and peony white case was a long stick of light grey wood streaked with white gold. It had subtle swirls and one little knot of wood about five inches up. When my fingers touched it I felt like I had suddenly stepped into the sun after a cold winter. When I waved it, carefully, the whole room began to fill with pink and green-blue fog. It swirled about us, streaking here and away. Unlike the lollies I could feel it coming from me. I felt _ responsible. _

“My god.” Laura said. “So this is magic.”

“So it is.” Ollivander smiled. 

I was too struck to say anything, but I agreed. So this was magic. 

“Ah, there is also this.” Laura fished in her bag for a long moment before producing a ball of gelatinous bronze gold barely holding form. “My husband’s will said it was to go to Eleanora when she...” 

_ “Remarkable. _” Ollivander clapped his hands giddily. “Well, on with it girl, attach it to your wand.” 

I did not want to do that. I shook my head.

“Come now,” he said severely. “Press the tip against it. On with it.”

I shook my head harder.

“Nora.” Laura sighed. “Please. For you father.”

I wouldn’t have done shit for any of my dad’s. Certainly not ruin my pretty new wand with a ball of _ strange coloured lard. _

“Please.” Laura pressed her lips together. “Please. I want him to be here.”

Oh. Fuck. _ Fine. _

I carefully took the _ lard ball _and pressed the tip of my perfect, white gold and grey wand to it. The ball of bronze wobbled.

_ Ha! See- _

The tip of my wand burned red-hot. There was a stinging in my bones, like bees and nettles, and then a sudden swooping cold. I dropped the bronze ball. My wand slowly began to burn up from the inside, like something was trying to crawl inside it. No. I wanted _ one _ thing from Harry Potter Worldwide and it was _ this _wand. Go away.

I snapped the tip of the wand away. Thick bronze ooze followed it winding up and down the length of the wand like treacle. I shook it. It stayed. I waved it. It became thin and spindly winding mostly around the grip. I was about to throw it-

“Oh _ bebe, _look!” Laura cried. I did not want to. I wanted this stuff off-

A flash of bronze light. An answering crash of Aurora green and blue. My wand blew hot again with an ache in my bones. I saw what Laura had meant, possibly less clearly, because for me it was only a pair of bright brown eyes that I’d seen in the mirror everyday since dying. 

The burning stopped. Wreathed in pale rose gold marbled lightly with bronze, was my wand. The substance felt like soft metal, pressing slightly when I touched it. For all the fuss all I felt was the warm welcome of my magic reflected in the wand. No, wait, there was something colder, like a rough shake awake from sleep.

My first thought after _ ahhhhhhhh _was that the metal was the exact shade I most often dyed my hair. 

Laura pulled herself together. “What was that?” she asked, voice cracked. 

“It was a part of your late husband’s magic, familial magic. It...supplements.” Ollivander said gravely. “My dear, what was your husband’s name?”

“Michael Marchand.” Laura and I supplied.“You’ve _ met _him.” Laura added, irate.

“Marchand.” He repeated. “Surely you don’t mean _ Marchand. _ ” He pronounced it without the French expression my mother and I naturally gave it. _ Marsh-and. _

“No.” My mother said stiffly. “I have the correct pronunciation.” 

“No, no, no. I did hear of his...Aspen and runespoor, passed down that wand. Stronger and stranger.” He snapped himself out of it. “She is not to inherit his wand.”

“It snapped.” Laura ground out. “In the accident that killed him. That,” she gestured at me, though I felt she meant the curious magic metal wrapped happily around the base of my wand. “Is all that survived.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” he murmured. “I did not mean any insult. It is just, perhaps, given her own nature it is _ best _she not inherit his wand.” 

I smiled. I liked _ curiouser and curiouser _as an expression. “What does it do? The metal.” The stuff about a dead guys wand was immaterial. It was snapped and mine was as Pottermore said: pine, 13 and three quarter, phoenix feather and supple.

“I suppose with your father gone it will be alright for me to say.” Ollivander bent on one knee in front of me, his pale, listless eyes solemn. “If it had come to you as intended it would have stopped the inherited magic from consuming you. All wands become reflections of their owners and that is a very dangerous thing indeed when it goes unchecked. As it is attached to your own wand, clean of spells and fresh as snow, I do not know exactly. You are what we in this world consider to be a half-blood. If you’re mother had been a witch it would have been thirteen generations since you last had a muggle ancestor. Thirteen generations since the matriarch of the _ Marchand, _ ” he pronounced _ Marsh-and _ again, “chose their last name and become one of Europe’s powerful families."

He paused dramatically, pulling a glass of water from _somewhere._

"For thirteen generations before that they eschewed the pragmatism of a name in favor of the family motto which translates as _ for power always tells. _The matriarch passed on her wand as many great families do. A lovely creation that indeed told of its power: wood of aspen and yew braided from a tree that grew in her yard. Four scales from the runespoor that bit and killed her husband. It was the exact length of that lady’s arm and as rigid and unyielding as her gaze. All her descendants until you found no other wand that suited them. Such a wand has been created before -the Black family and it’s cadet branches are, indeed, full of them for it was a much admired practice. But carrying the same wand to do the same magic for centuries is...inadvisable.” 

I couldn’t stop my face from twitching. Huh. That was...

He stood and patted me on the head. “Your father’s death is tragic but I hope you understand that a new wand is anything but.”

Well on that fucked up note...

“Thanks.” I fidgeted and kept my fingers on _ my _ wand that was for _ me. _“I, uh, don’t suppose you have books on wandlore?”

He did. He didn’t even charge for them. Smart choice, I think Laura and I were one weird thing away from strangling him with his own damn cravat. Quite apart from _ hey, maybe don’t mention???? My newly dead dad????? In a speech in front of my widowed mom????? _ About fucking nothing he said made sense. This wasn’t some Deathly Hallows shit. Did yew and aspen even share a climate? Runespoor? Fuck off. The wand was fucking _ broken _ and _ buried _ and I didn’t _ know anyone else in my family. _

I was still gritting my teeth as we walked back into the Leaky Cauldron. “Mom.” 

“Yes, darling.”

“That was a bunch of bullshit.”

Laura snorted but did not, in fact, disagree. 

\--

It had been months that felt like days. I spoke French haphazardly but Laura had insisted on visiting France and practicing complete immersion. Her sister, Noelle, was a true French Girl stereotype and I was _ obsessed _ with her. She lived in an upscale artists commune, drank black coffee at all times of day and wore only red lipstick and only white nailpolish. I wasn't sure she ate or slept. I didn’t want her aesthetic but I did want the breezy way she dealt with things. Laura found her sister only intermittently comforting but that was because Noelle had only been married for two years before her paramour died and left her a reasonable inheritance. It was only because Micheal was dead that she could take two months off to fuck around Paris and that fact made Laura _ miserable. _Noelle didn’t understand it but she did hold her sisters hand while she wept. And she did give me hot cocoa and let me sit on her balcony at all times of day and night. I worried about Laura, a little, because she was a human I saw everyday and her grief was impossible. Noelle made me feel better. 

One night Laura brought out a small radio and switched it to a tinny Golden Oldies station. Noelle hung fairy lights along her balcony and pressed flowers onto small tables in between comfy chairs. Plants grew half heartedly from pots. It was cramped out here even without the throw blankets and pillows. The air was a little chilly with the ghost of a man I didn’t know but who loved the body I’d been forced into and the woman left to look after me. 

Laura wore red now almost everyday. It was Noelle’s clothes but her thin, sad frame. “I want him to be proud of us. I want him to be proud of you.” She drank her cold hot chocolate and stared across the Paris skyline. “Be proud, Eleanora.” 

The next day I went to Beauxbatons. 


	2. A Pretty Place Full of Pointless People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this completed for months but uh. It's 2020. So. 
> 
> As usual with my HP works I cycle between reading an incredible piece of fanwork -most recently Percy takes The Wheel- and get inspired and then JK Rowling says some terf-y bullshit and I get resentful. Here's hoping I get somewhere before she tweets again.

To get to Beauxbaton’s you rose and rose through clouds of misty magic, travelled along a starlit path and landed in the middle of a mountainside goat paddock liberally covered in excrement. This was a very helpful illustration of things to come. 

Overhead a fleet of horse-drawn carriages continued onwards towards a glowing dawn coloured portal, those carriages were full of returning students. Below the first years picked up their bags and trundled up a rocky path towards a smaller, less ostentatious sky-portal.

Along with the hundred and something other first years I trudged up the slope, huffing and puffing. Two tall witches in lovely dusk blue stood next to the portal tapping their feet. Apparently we were unusually unfit eleven-year-olds. 

“Go through.” The man on the left said.

“Don’t screw up.” The woman on the right added.

There was no sorting. There was no feasting either. We had the first three days of the semester off. The entire curriculum was tilted towards the older students, particularly the ones doing their independent study. We were told this by a blue-robed woman who didn’t tell us her name. We were led through a near pitch-black campus to the first year residences, tucked into rooms four apiece and left to manage ourselves until midnight when we’d be fed. 

I fell asleep instead.

I didn't take this as a portent of things to come. As I'd eventually learn over my seven years here I had a bad habit of underestimating things. 

\--

I learned only three things in my first three days at Beauxbatons.

  1. The grounds were redesigned every twenty-five years with the full restoration taking place in what would be my third year. This mattered for several reasons in general and two in specific. Firstly every single student was placed under a gag order and magically forbidden from describing the grounds to anyone until after it was completed. This was a security measure because at random points over the next few years wards would be lifted and changed. The second was that the changing of the Beauxbaton’s grounds would initiate the two-year change over of the _Internationale_. What was the _Internationale_? 
  2. The _Internationale _was a grouping of terms: basically a mirror of the UN, minus the UK in the magical world. It was also the name for a confederation of world power that met yearly to set trade terms. This _internationale _was currently based in France and would be moving to the Emirates during my time at Beauxbatons. It was also a common term in France for wizard’s -mostly a way of saying _not-British. _And, finally, it was what duelling used instead of _league. _The Duelling Internationale. 
  3. That the first two years really, really mattered. At the end of our second year we would be ‘sorted’ into four dorms and assigned a roommate we’d live with until the end of our schooling. It wasn’t said outright but the implication was that it really goddamn mattered who your roommate was. 

At the end of the third day I received my class schedule and launched myself forward, into my magical future. 

\--

“Dump your books.” A thickly moustached man in a purple velvet waistcoat said. “In this class, I talk and you listen. Write notes, record, whatever. What you retain is up to you. Nearly all of this a dedicated student could learn in the library.” 

The room was tired in four sections with a long wood table at the front. The man had introduced himself as Professor Perseus. The only teacher with  _ professor  _ before his name, the rest were tutors. I shared the room with dozens of other students. History was one of the most often taken subjects.

For the next forty minutes, Professor Perseus talked about the early twentieth century, skipping around, leaving huge chunks out. He made a good comparative history between the rise of Dark Magic in Europe and the rise of nationalism in the muggle consciousness. There were wildly untrue assertions -he conflated the wants of the pacific and America entirely with Europe, for instance, and his grasp of colonialism was frighteningly poor- but he made a reasonable argument...for something. Those of us who had covered any of this in school weren’t sure where this was going. The other muggleborns and one I  _ knew  _ was Jewish looked baffled and faintly offended. The purebloods in either boredom or confusion were writing down notes as fast as they could. There was a suspicious gleam in the professor's eye, something one might call a twinkle. 

“Now.” He places large, meaty hands on the table. “What was wrong with what I just said?”

I raised my hand. As did a redhead with sharp hazel eyes.

Perseus tracked us both, said, “Orial-McGowan.”

The redhead stood to speak. The purebloods all gave her their rapt attention. “You didn’t source anything you just said relying on our respect for you to make us believe you. This is not an effective argument because it may be unreliable. Anyone with suitable charisma could say  _ anything. _ ”

“That was  _ one  _ thing, yes.” Professor Perseus clapped his hands together. “This week’s assignment: name three things I did wrong, you may include Orial-McGowan’s contribution. This assignment does not go to your overall grade. Just your comprehension.”

Professor Perseus left.

\--

My year had a few standout students.

Mathilde Orial-McGowan, daughter of the illustrious and  _ very  _ dark McGowan family. Hestius Truegood, a prodigy in healing magics. Fleur Delacour, of course. Marcia Grout. Reginald and Cynthia Dubois. Thomas Bernard. And, finally, Jane Ito, daughter of the finance minister and scheduled to go to Japan’s academy until she was accepted  _ on merit  _ to Beauxbatons instead. 

That was a fantastic series of insults. 

I knew who Jane Ito was. Slim build, high cheekbones and a constantly mildly interested face. She was dressed in the standard powder blue uniform with a scrap of Japanese patterned silk pulling her hair back from her face. I’d idly counted the patterns. Yesterday was classic cherry blossoms, today it was a blocky yellow and primary blue textile. I’d overheard one or two of the older students speculating on her heritage. I wasn’t sure yet if they meant that she was mixed but not white or half-blooded. 

“Vietnamese and Japanese.” Jane didn’t look up from her newspaper. “My parents.”

I blinked at her. “I didn’t ask?”

A vague pressure against my head eased and released. “You did not have to.” She did it again.

I imagined flexing a shield around my mind. Jane pushed harder. Huh. “You’re a telepath.”

Jane nodded, carefully turning a page. “Your natural shields are very good but you were thinking  _ at  _ me not just about me.”

“Sorry?”

Jane’s lips did not so much smile as smooth down contentedly. “It’s alright.”

\--

I’d thought for sure that  _ Potions  _ would be packed. It had to be the most useful class in the OGP. When I entered the now standard tiered room with long chalkboard, I found it set up for maybe twenty people. This was opposite Transfiguration which meant there were only two slots in the week. If this was the standard class size then, unlike all the other classes, only one  _ quarter _ of the first years were taking it. I laid down my bag next to Jane’s and copied her set up. A cauldron out, scales, but no ingredients. 

Our Potions tutor was a tall woman with dark features. Her accent made her hard to understand in French. She must have known this for she was very clear in her physicality and tended to write on the board as she talked. “This is a list of approved sellers.” A roll of parchment appeared on our desks. “They will provide for you everything you need for this year. In future years it will be your responsibility to develop the contacts to gather your ingredients as they will, depending on your focus, not be provided by the sellers on this list. You may ask the upper years, your parents or each other. There is  _ no rule  _ against helping each other in this class.”

“I don’t understand,” a muggleborn boy asked. “Are we not making these potions today? Won’t it take time for them to arrive?”

“For Potion Making the first three years are fundamentals. I will inform you of what you will be making at the start of the week, the following class will be a studying session where I will assign you relevant reading, in the final double class you will make the potion. I will grade you on comprehension of the task and effectiveness of the potion. In the last four years you will be assigned an effect for your potion to have and then given a set of time to either find or create a potion that fits the brief.” 

Oh god. I wanted to quit. 

From the queasy looks, I wasn’t the only one. 

Jane was thrilled. “Will we be starting today?”

“Of course.” Our tutor replied. “Ito, yes? I remember receiving an essay from you. Very good.” 

I nudged her. “Show off.”

“Yes, I am,” she replied with complete humility. 

The first potion was for healing paper cuts. It required only four ingredients. I only had one of them in my room. A small pouch of coins deposited itself next to me.

Our tutor spoke again. “These tokens can be used in place of money. They have a value assigned to them as described on the back of each token. It will be up to you to figure out what is a fair price for goods. The prices given to you by the approved sellers are a good evaluation of the current market price. Each session you will be given a pouch with an amount that should cover your acquisitions. Sometimes you will need more money, in which case I advise you to figure out what you can and cannot substitute, and sometimes you will have leftovers. These have  _ no value  _ to sellers not on our approved list. Do not attempt to buy frivolous things.”

But, I did hear, we could use our leftovers for things that weren’t frivolous. My hand shot up. “Are we expected to finance ourselves outside of the foundational course?” The tutor’s eyebrow went up. “I mean, you said we have to find other sellers so...”

“Just so, Ms Marchand.” The tutor nodded. Why the fuck did she know who I was? “No. Once you’ve bargained for the goods you want you will give them my name-” oh god I’d missed her name, shit- “and I will sort out the details. It is to this end that I suggest you form your relationships quickly. I do not hand out essays like the Transfiguration focus and I do not require practical exams like Alchemy or Duelling. Instead, I handle these details to see how you conduct yourselves and make my judgements on  _ that.  _ As long as you take this course your conduct will be as much part of your grades as your actual potions. It will not go well if I have to chase after you to ensure you are equipped for class. Or for any  _ other  _ reason.” 

Suitable frightened we shuffled out papers, gathered our coins and glanced around for confirmation that had all  _ just happened.  _

“Hey Jane.” I asked. I counted my twelve coins. “You want to be friends?”

Jane grinned. “For potions ingredients?”

“Oh sure.” I said light as a feather. Her tone suggested she thought I was funny. Ha. I made a friend. “That, and I  _ know  _ you’ll pick the teacher’s brains.”

\--

First year sucked. Second year  _ hella  _ sucked. I wish to god I had more to say about it but learning an entirely new thought system when you’re not actually eleven and said system has some big fucking internal logic holes is hard. I nearly crapped out of the math portion entirely. Magical synesthesia is an even bigger pain in the ass than the regular kind. 

Beauxbatons worked on a model of absolute independence. You had classes together but every other aspect of your education was up to you to pursue. This was great for an adult in a preteen body -I’d gone to Centrelink, nothing scared me- and great for those who had some idea of what was possible in Magical France. It was hell on the Muggleborns. Beauxbatons made  _ some  _ arrangements but it was an unspoken rule that the country currently holding the magic version of the UN required that its students develop some social and political savvy. You couldn’t  _ fail out  _ from being socially awkward or not knowing the right classes to pick, but it could fuck up your opportunities down the line. 

First year had four in a dorm and three hours of social activities a week. Usually, it was performance related -plays, movies, dance classes. Sometimes it was sports. Soccer seemed to be one of the ones that bled through the Magic/Muggle barrier. As did tennis and badminton. I’d done dance-movies-badminton and come out on the other side with a solid group of study buddies. Not friends, but people I could talk to. 

Making friends was hard. I had Jane, who seemed to pick  _ me _ more than anything else, but that was where it ended. First year was all about acclimatising for us muggle kids. We had to get used to speaking entirely in French, learning a new way of thinking and parsing out a culture that rewarded a deranged version of individuality. We lived alone in second year with a shared bathroom and a small sitting area. You never really saw your dorm mates. It was  _ understood  _ that unless it was a group assignment you spent your time alone until you could meet some kind of unsaid standard.

It might have been different for the purebloods. I didn’t really know. 

Tiny Fleur Delacour was pretty, pretentious and just a little mean. Since that was me at her size I was warier of her than most. That she would become capable and powerful over the course of the coming years, and that my plans for Harry’s fourth year required that she not be who she was in the OGP, made interacting with her both a chore and awkward. We’d paired together once for a Charms exercise that my nerves had rendered volatile and pointless. Reality bent around Fleur and ensured she’d never have to deal with a less than perfect partner -see: me- ever again. That was fine. It was the best possible outcome. 

Still sucked for me. Now  _ no one  _ wanted to be my partner in Charms. 

Fair. I was amazingly awful at them. 

I never really thought Transfiguration was going to be my bag. It icked me a little in the OGP. It annoyed me in this life with its seeming lack of logic. I could get over the conversion of matter but inanimate to animate or vice versa pissed me off. Making mice into teacups just made me worried for the mice. And scared of teacups. It got to the point where any class that covered transfiguring something with a heartbeat ended with me setting the person in front of me on fire. 

The tutor for that class took one look at my angry little frown, asked me what my wand was made of, and promptly never gave me another living creature to work on ever again.

Theory, I was pretty sure, would be mine once we moved out of basic comprehension of what a theory  _ was _ and into where it met magic. It did make me wonder what they were doing in Britain though. Some of it was that Rowling clearly never thought of the practicals of living in a universe, Harry’s lack of interest in the underpinnings of his world helped, but there was this shocking hole in the moral and philosophical underpinnings of British Magical society. Blood purity bullshit, sure, but no real examination of the ideas that made up the foundation of that society. What did progress mean? Regression? How could a society that claimed to be so separated from a globalised world share so many values? I had more specific qualms -if the society split at the height of the witch trials, a thing not designed to hunt for witches in the first place, then why was religion not still a driving force of life? You couldn’t say wizards didn’t have religion because that was fundamentally impossible for large portions of history in this region. Why the  _ fuck  _ did the wizarding world have the results of the industrial revolution without any of the driving forces of capital  _ and  _ the audacity to suggest the divide between muggles and magic was real? 

That was probably  _ too  _ nit picky. Maybe. 

Math was, partially, the answer. Alchemical Math was more about symbolism and semiotics as Beauxbatons regularly rearranged meaning according to an expanding understanding of the universe. It was technical and required amazing amounts of notes. Alchemy, as Beauxbatons understood it, was primarily the study of one thing becoming another. On the downside: it was technical and there was no practical application until fourth year. On the cool side: I’d hear one of the muggleborns was attempting to translate computer code into its magical equivalent. The student in question was regularly seen walking around with reams of old computer code floating around him. It was Beauxbatons Alchemist’s and their friends in the African and Asian schools who innovated muggle to magic, with sometimes screwy results. 

Maths for Magic was what I figured Arithmancy was at Hogwarts as well as being the basis for warding and rune magic. It, much like Magical Care was a floater course that covered many subjects. Magic Care for creatures, humans and things inbetween. It was one of the hardest courses at Beauxbatons by  _ miles.  _ I intended to get competent and then get the hell out. Herbology lay along the same lines: I would be competent maybe even  _ good  _ but I was not, in any way, talented. 

And then there was Duelling. 

\--

I was setting  _ everything  _ on fire.

“Miss Marchand?” Second year tutor Reynard Sauveterre called across the room. “Have you decided upon setting my room on fire every week, or is this some other form of incompetence?” 

The class tittered. I kept my kick of rage tightly sealed in.

Sauveterre was a world-renowned duelist, an exceptional charms user and the personal bane of my existence. Middle height, light-skinned with a long unruly mop of red-brown hair, he was also consistently the most well put together member of staff. Part of hating him was that I was sure we might have been friends if I was my actual age or he was younger. I liked him and the pushiness of puberty made sure I was absolutely  _ crushed  _ he didn’t like me. 

“No, sir.” I grit my teeth and pulled my adult sized magic back. “I’ll get the hang of it.”

“Mmm.” Sauveterre tapped his wand thoughtfully against his leg. Without verbal warning he flung a spell at me. I watched the cool blue magic pull from his centre, become as sharp and refined as a needle as it flowed to his wand and catch-release with the motion of his wrist.

I ducked under a table, of course.

It was Jane’s table and Jane’s frown that worried me. Jane didn’t go in for expressions where micro-expressions would do. I turned to look at Sauveterre who was in the middle of pulling yet more blue energy. I couldn’t duck under  _ another  _ table so I pulled my own flame colour up and made a rough shield in front of me and Jane. His spell bounced. 

He went again and I made another shield. Another spell. Another shield.

We did this five times until the shield burst and I got hit with the...aimless push of wind?

“It was just a gust of elemental air magic, Marchand,” Sauveterre said briskly crossing the room. “What on earth was that red magic?”

“You mean my magic?” I asked, fairly bewildered. “I don’t know any shielding spells, sir. I was just making a circle in front of me.”

“What do you think a shield is?” He turned to the class and said, “you’re dismissed. I want a paragraph from all of you on what you  _ think _ happened here. You, Marchand, are exempt because I will be telling you right now.”

Argh. Why? “I can write a paragraph.”

“But you can’t cast a repair charm. Alas that was the assignment.” He waits until everyone is gone. Even Jane who was going to out stubborn him to stay with me. She goes, openly reluctant, frowning at Sauveterre the whole time. “What’s the problem, Marchand?”

“I don’t know.” I announced. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

He flicks another burst of air and I respond with another shield that bursts. The taste of blood wells in my mouth.

“Enough.” He snaps. At who  _ I  _ don’t know. It’s not  _ my _ fault. “How’s your home life?”

Neglectful? Peaceful? Spent worrying about my neighbour? “Fine.”

He gets close enough to squat down on my left, leaving a clear line of sight to the door. “I’m asking because when a witch has that much raw power, no control, your attitude and an aptitude for defensive magic, responsible adults have questions. So, are things okay at home?”

My attitude was great...oh. “I’m not- That isn’t-” I took a steadying breath. “My dad died in an accident. My mom blames me. She’s probably right. Because it was magic that caused it.” 

“I see.” He looks at me steadily. I don’t like it. “And how did you know when and where my spell was coming from?”

The implication is obvious. “My mom’s a muggle. She can’t, um,  _ use  _ spells on me _ . _ ” I added, harassed. “I can see it, can’t you? Your magic’s blue and when it comes out it’s from your heart.” I tapped where mine welled up. Which was more heart chakra than heart. “Are you all out here performing magic without seeing how it works?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Oh.” I sat down on my ass. “Why?”

He laughed. Full body, leg shaking laughs. “I don’t know. How do you see magic?”

About five minutes later I was invited to Duelling in place of traditional Charms. Apparently he was tired of me burning down this classroom and would prefer I burn down wide open spaces with people who could reliably put out their own fires instead. 

\--

“Oh, yes.” A tall dark skinned boy a few years older than me said. “This one cannot be allowed free reign in a defenceless classroom.”

Well  _ I  _ thought the giant patch of bright blue fire was  _ pretty.  _

“Lovely colour,” Sauveterre remarked, eyeing the very large field that was once grass and was now flame. He waved his hand and the fire returned to grass. “But yes, she’ll have to take Duelling as her primary.” He gave quick orders to the five other people who had not talked to me since we’d arrived. “Do not follow Marchand’s example. Aim your magic -just your magic, no incantations- at the target.” 

Well. Okay. I  _ wanted  _ that but, “Why? I’m good at Potions, History and Herbology.”

“I didn’t know the Marchand family had political aspirations.” The tall boy said. “I am Phillippe, by the way. No last name.” He bowed with good-natured grace and flung a spell of his own at the target I had been  _ meant  _ to hit. His shot crossed the fifty metres or so of space just  _ fine. _

“Eleanora,” I replied. “Why do I  _ have  _ to have a Duelling focus?”

“Because Eleanora no one is going to see that level of firepower at Court and focus on anything else.” 

What. “I don’t know-”

“Nora!” Jane yelled. She was coming across from our dorms dressed for Flight lessons. It was the one class we were on opposite schedules for. I had a free lesson -now double Duelling- and she had Flight. On older students the tight leather-esque jodhpurs and puffy vest of the Flight uniforms were almost fetching, especially since you were allowed to Charm them to your heart’s content. On baby Jane the soft yellow vest and bright blue of her jodhpurs was just adorable. Jane huffed, out of breath when she got to us. “Are you okay?”

I looked at the once-was-flame grass. “I’ve done worse, I think. Did you just finish?”

Flight was mandatory until fourth year. You could ride magical horses, brooms or freestyle. I’d chosen horses because I came pre-equipped with the knowledge and Jane went with brooms with an idea to move to freestyle once she could manage the levitation charms. It was a purely practical class, one that made sense more in world than in fiction. Minors had far more freedoms in France than in Britain with regards to magic use but we had a much stricter ban on modes of travel. Something, something revolution, something something continental diplomatic hub. 

“One more spell for today.” Sauveterre announced with a gentle pat to Jane’s head. He liked Jane which was just another injustice in the world because now I had to respect him. “One verbal  _ reducto  _ for the younglings and nonverbal for my shambling corpses.”

I cast my reducto, watched it fail and chalked it up to the shape of the day. I’d hit  _ woozy from magic exhaustion _ back in the Charms classroom. This was pure stubbornness.

“Bit wobbly, there.” Phillippe said. “Why not use the incantations?”

I shrugged. “Oh, I never do.”

Sauveterre frowned. A very loud thing on his fine features. 

The other students fared better than me all the way down to the only one I knew by sight. 

Mathilde Orial-McGowan stepped forward performed her spell perfectly and reduced all the remaining targets to a pile of ash.

“Show off,” Philippe said goodnaturedly. “That’s your competition, Ito, Merchand. Mathilde is in a league all her own.”

“I’m sticking to poisons,” Jane said. “But I’m sure Nora will keep it in mind.”

\--

Later, when we had retired to the ponds near the South Lake, I asked Jane. “What the fuck is Court?”

Jane hummed. “Britain has long disbanded their Royal Court but France still, technically, has a royal line. The process of removing it would disrupt too many important trade deals and cause mass starvation for the magical population. Instead we run our government  _ aesthetically  _ as if it was still a Royal Court all the way down to Lady’s and Knights and all that. On the inside it runs like a normal government. Minus the elections, of course.” She shrugged. “We’re a service economy with a bloated middle class and we do not have enough farmland to provide food for half our people.” Jane Ito, daughter of the Finance minister, reminded me. 

“Okay, but, like,” listen I only had a passing economics education based in a world where capitalism was seen as a necessity because it was impossible to provide for everyone without the rich getting shitty, but, “the only resource we can’t produce ourselves is food. We have a basically infinite ability to meet other needs. Why  _ not  _ focus on creating relationships with Muggles in the know? We cure their fly blown cows and cast rain spells, they give us a cut of the food, we become a Republic.”

“I do not know about the viability of that.” Jane allowed. “The Magic populace of France and its Allies has an unofficial stance that buying food from Muggles as a primary source would trigger quarantine laws. Their food is tainted by virtue of being grown on non-magical land.”

“Magic is fucked.”

“Yes. It is.” Jane amiably began doodling on the side of my page. 

\--

“What do you mean, you don’t use incantations?” Sauveterre asked three weeks after I switched to double Duelling. 

I blinked from the ground I was sprawled on. Today was physical conditioning and I was  _ tired.  _ “When I first tried using the words in a spell I knocked myself out. I just mumble ‘em now.”

Sauveterre glared. Bit much for a twelve year old. “Try it.”

I did. Oh, look, a fire. 

Sauveterre glared at the fire, a nice change. “You’re putting too much intent into your casting.”

“That’s possible?”

Sauveterre was silent. His wand tapped incessantly at his side. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “development of the pathways between magic and caster are quickened. Abuse can be one such way, which you’ve assured me is not the case.”

“Nope.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “The other is an  _ unusually  _ strong will. Rarely a good thing.”

I thought about it. I was essentially an adult consciousness. I had few doubts and comparatively great self-esteem. I didn’t worry overmuch. I already knew I could handle things. “How can that be a bad thing?”

Sauveterre twitched again. I’d noticed he did that when he was about to say something that gave him a more human veneer. His thin, finely dyed silver shirt and pressed charcoal pants not withstanding, there was something unhinged about the man. I never thought he’d hurt us but it was clear he could hurt  _ something.  _

“Intent, for lack of a better word, is the difference between an average wizard and memorable one.” He stood and in a fluid motion flicked from his wrist and sent an arc of metallic light toward a lone tree. The tree dissolved. “The average wizard will never cast a truly impressive version of any spell because they simply don’t want to.  _ You,  _ Eleanora Ada-Maria Marchand, always will.”

I felt a prickle down my body as he looked at me. I felt like a small spine-d creature that knew with certainty it would never escape. As far as the sentiment behind  _ with great power comes great responsibility  _ went it was a very good translation.

\--

At the end of the second trimester, Sauveterre held a small party. There was food and drink and a small selection of part games. We’d heard that he did this from time to time, especially as the classes got smaller and smaller, until our seventh year when we would number less than five to a class. 

He’d been by turns friendly and taciturn all day. To Phillipe, he’d told a long rather dry joke that sent the boy into rapturous laughter -a good look on him. To a passing teacher’s aide, he’d barely kept from snarling. His wand, usually kept in a practical holster, was in his hand tapping against his leg.

At the end of the double period he stood in front of us and spoke. “To duel is to learn the art of warfare. I don’t mean that artistically, philosophically or as a cute turn of phrase. In the Magical world an accomplished Duellist is as close as we come to a warrior.”

There it was again, the tapping against his leg. He wouldn’t look at us. 

“If you want to stay this course I will ensure that by the end of it you are as competent as I think it is safe for you to be. That will not be the same place for all of you and is utterly at my discretion to decide. I may decide you no longer have a place in this class at any time. Your credits will carry over into your other classes, have no fear of that, but the temperament to survive  _ my  _ education is not found in all who choose to be here. This is a practical course with a focus on pragmatic defense. It is  _ not  _ practicing fancy footwork with your cousins or disarming spells thrown at stationary targets. Some of you may reach a competitive level at which time I will accompany you to tournaments and further beyond if you wish to make a career of it. Some of you will become all around competent and content to leave what you learn here at self defense and nothing more. For the last of you,” his voice dropped, near mumbling, “this will be your life.”

His burning, unhappy gaze, passed over all of us. 

“For now, you all pass.”

_ And,  _ went unspoken,  _ that will not be true for long.  _

\--

Potions was great. I just had to be not lazy to pass. 

I’d had this secret assumption that it was like baking because it seemed the closest in the books to something science-y. In actuality that was Alchemic Formulation, a very theoretical course we couldn’t take till fifth year, that covered the translation of spells through various formats across history. It was  _ the _ foundation for people who wanted to go into spell creation or regulation. I just thought it was cool as fuck. History, theory and, yeah, okay, some math? Sign me the fuck up.

Potions was what it was portrayed as in the books. Stopper death, bottle fame. It could do some seriously wicked shit but it was regulated to death in France. Politically speaking, Potions was seen as a discipline only the very rich or the very ambitious went for. It was useful for Healers -also a surprisingly politically un-neutral occupation- but most of them outsourced their potions to a tight cabal of Potion Makers. This was the very exclusive group that Jane was angling to one day infiltrate and overthrow for her own purposes. 

I made another note on the side of my page to lookup alternatives for butterfly wings, as I hated ripping them off myself and it was hideously difficult to source during certain parts of the year. I wrote another note under that to check what the British equivalent was. 

“You’re very interested in the British system.” Jane commented from where she was sorting vials for one of her own experiments. Our tutor, whose name I was doomed to miss forever, had approved her brewing on her own provided she had someone else in the room with her. Hence us basically living in the Potions classroom. 

“I am British.” I murmured, skimming my reference book. Dragonfly wings were a more volatile alternative to butterfly, but could not be added to anything that had a base of purified water or coconut oil? We were using coconut oil? 

“ _ Herrad’s Equivalence  _ is probably the best book to look at for cultural specifications between different regions. But I don’t understand why you’re so focused. The Marchand’s are a French family. You go to school in France. If you work it will be here.”

If? “It’s not about that. How do I study during the holidays and...” I liked Jane a hell of a lot but I still wasn’t sold on her.

“And?”

Leap of faith. “And,” I wet suddenly dry lips, “I live down the street from Harry Potter.”

Jane said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “You shouldn’t tell people that. France is neutral, we must be until the Emirates becomes the Internationale, but there are many dark families who would happily murder a child, or worse. Is that why you’re so grown up?”

“Huh?” I said. “I’m not...” An adult imposter in a child’s body.

“I read people’s minds. My understanding is different as a result. Your thoughts aren’t like a typical twelve-year-olds.”

“My dad died. I grew up.”

Jane’s face scrunched up. “You can just say you don’t want to tell me.”

“I don’t want to tell you.” I said flat. Predictably Jane’s face fell. “But I probably will, later. I like you Jane Ito.”

“I like you, Eleanora.”

I nodded. “So. Harry, he’s a wizard 100%. His family is widely considered awful and I don’t see them being cool about it. If I can help, I’m going to. I didn’t think the cultural differences would be so wide.”

Beauxbatons was _beyond _isolated. We’d developed a monastic internal culture. Part of our education was developing contacts with what I was starting to think was basically the muggle black market. As far as I could tell that reputation for silly Charms and pointless pretty people? Just a smokescreen for serious training in duelling, the Magic equivalent a banned book club and an immersive education in political maneuvering. In the OGP we never got a real sense of Beauxbatons or its students and if it was anything like it was here I could see why. 

Jane raised a dubious brow. “You’re doing this to help some kid you don’t know?”

_ I’m doing this because child abuse is not a training ground for sacrifice. No one should ask of someone what Dumbledore is willing to ask of Harry.  _ It wasn’t just a book now. It was a kid who lived down the road.

"There are some thing's a good person has to do."

Jane's eyes flickered dark and I saw someone like me: too old for what was coming and too young to do anything about it yet.  _ What do you know, Jane Ito?  _ I thought. 

"More than I should, I think." She returned to cutting up her ingredients. I returned to thinking about being twelve yet not, and added the sadness of knowing I might share  _ that _ with Jane. 

\--

Exams came. Exams were passed. I'd clawed my way up to the top fifteen and then to top ten through furious use of skillshare in a previous life. I had notes. I had timetables. I had rigorous memorization skills. I was going to show up next year and choose my focus -however that was done. My marks wouldn't stop me. 

Two days before I returned to Laura I put on one of my muggle outfits and went to find Jane for lunch. We'd lined up our marks so that we'd be paired together next year in the dorms. I was looking forward to it, even I eventually found the loneliness of second year stifling. All around the lower courtyards people strode around in groups. The older years had come to watch us find out our room assignments. They looked smug and anticipatory, like they were in for a great show. I frowned when a fouth year I’d never so much as glanced out mouthed  _ Marchand  _ at me. 

I found Jane leaning against a statue talking to a pretty girl in a wheelchair. The girl’s features were golden and sharp, her probably rich brown hair covered by a scarf. With her hands neatly folded in her lap she was the perfect picture of politeness. 

“This is Hania Burakgazi.” Jane announced. “She will be my roommate next year.”

Anxiety clawed my gut. Jane’s apologetic face did not help.

I ran to the postings, up by one of the larger fountains near a dining hall. I pushed my way through to find my name safely in the top ten where I’d struggled to put it. I found my marks, they ranged from 1-5. Dire to Acceptable to Astonishing. My anxiety turned to cold sweat as I realised that Jane’s History score was below mine, which put her out of the running to be my roommate. The next logical conclusion- Surely not- Surely  _ fucking  _ not- 

“If she gets a four and I get a five...” 

Oh fuck. I was going to be Fleur DeLacour’s fucking roommate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Jane hears thoughts about her incredibly clearly. The rest is mostly sensation. I love the idea of magical synesthesia.  
-Nora has not thought of the way she probably WILL fail Potions: never finding out her tutors name.  
-There's a reason that Nora is very light on some kinds of information in this chapter.  
-Laura stayed in France for another four months before she remembered why she and her sister effectively split the British Empire between them.  
-We will be returning to Number Eight for part of the next chapter. Mayhaps a small dark-haired child will appear. Mayhaps.

**Author's Note:**

> Next Time: A Pointless Place For Pretty People


End file.
